It is wild and windy oot there, folks. If you're heading into Edinburgh for the Hogmanay celebrations, good luck! We're going to a party around the corner but I am fighting the urge to just stay in the bathrobe and read a book.

How was your 2006? Mine was a goodun and I'm looking forward to working hard and moving forward in 2007. Happy new year, folks!

To everyone back home, I really miss youse all.

Three Favourite Books of 2006

1.  Behind The Scenes At The Museum, Kate Atkinson.
2.  Case Histories, Kate Atkinson.
3.  Human Croquet, Kate Atkinson.

'MON THE KATE!

If I was Scottish I might say that in 2006 I went pure dead MENTAL for the works of Kate Atkinson.

Born in York, the author now resides in Edinburgh but I shan't be stalking her; I prefer to admire a la distance.

This week in Blogland feels dead, like the non-ratings summer period you get on Australian telly where it's all Macgyver and M*A*S*H repeats. So while it is quiet I shall write about my favourite things from 2006. And there's nothing you can do to stop me!

First up: BLOGS.

There are so many sailors on the sea of blogs these days, how does one pluck a few favourites out of the water? I like a blogger with a strong voice and a sense of humour. I like reading about lives far removed from my own, or people who are opinionated where I am fluffy, or people who are good at things at which I am crap. I like bloggers who are far more intelligent than me, when I'm too scared to leave comments so just sit in awed silence. And sometimes most of all, I like to make the first cuppa of the day then sip and read about people cooking good things, while I wonder how long it is until I can reasonably eat my lunch.

On the way to the train station yesterday I went by a posh clothing boutique and there was a mannequin in the window wearing a very lovely frock. Flattering-to-redheads green, flattering-to-dumpy-gal wrap style, and 50% off! But I was running late so I carried on.

I was meeting an excellent Internet Friend for the first time, and even though I have lost count of the number of excellent Internet Friends I have met in person over the past decade I still get ridiculously nervous every time. My teeth chatter and my face burns and I have to go wee about twenty-seven times. I was early so I fiddled with my hair and pretended to be casually texting Other Friends on my phone which is difficult with gloves on. Mfhuul grffc mgigu.

Anyway, my Internet Friend arrived and instantly she was as Excellent as I knew she'd be so I relaxed and we headed for a coffee shop. I was feeling quite cool and calm as I put down my bag and removed my hat and plucked off the gloves and unwound the scarf and finally... unbuttoned my coat.

"Oh, hey!" she said, "Your zip is undone."

Just. Bloody. Brilliant.

Really must stop getting dressed in the dark.

Later on I walked past Posh Boutique again with vague intentions of trying on the frock. Sure enough the mannequin was in the window, exactly as I'd left her; still wearing the lovely green dress with a strand of sparkly beads draped around her headless stump of a neck.

There was one difference, though. The flattering V-neckline now plunged considerably further than it had that morning. How do I put this? THE TITS WERE HANGING OUT OF THE DRESS.

Had someone asked to see the frock, then saleslady put it back in the window in a great hurry? Or had some bored husband made the adjustment while waiting for his missus to try on her 39th outfit? Either way, two white and shiny plastic boobs were beaming out at the street and entertaining all the passers-by.

Suddenly I lost all desire to try the dress on; after giving an eyeful of undies to someone I'd just met, it just looked too dangerous.

Now that Rhi and I are old and living on the opposite side of the world from the family, we have been forced to establish our own festive traditions. I'm not sure if the Christmas Stereo Speaker Tree will catch on or if I will get off my arse and buy a proper specimen next year.

Rhi came to Scotland bearing gifts with amusing tags. This one was for Gareth.

Here is the Christmas Coffee Table as decorated by Dr G, with casually arranged clementines as per Nigella Lawson's suggestion. She also said one should drape bunches of grapes over the table like a Roman orgy, but grapes are not in season so he substituted a stunted plastic Christmas tree, which really set off the designer plastic measuring jug/gravy boat.

Upon Gareth's treasured set of Australian Animal coasters we set out plates of assorted animals and vegetables. There was enough for ten people but the three of us managed to scoff most of it.

We allowed a couple of hours to digest while the booze-laden sticky toffee pud glowered away in the oven.

The toffee sauce was slightly traumatic. I hate making toffee sauce; all that bloody stirring and stubborn sugar that refuses to dissolve.

This is the bit where I got impatient and stuck my finger into the saucepan to see if the sugar had dissolved, forgetting that molten sugar has a temperature of approximately eleventeen billion degrees.

So I spent the next few hours with my throbbing finger in a glass of ice water while Rhiannon finished the cooking. And it all turned out bloody beautiful. That oven can perform when it wants to!

In 1999, I deep-fried my hand while working in the fish and chip shop in Bathurst. My most-loathed daily task was filtering the oil in the massive fryers. On this occassion a stray chip was clogging the drain, so I poked it with a big metal stick to dislodge it. But my greasy hand slipped and plunged deep down into the gurgling fat, right up to my wrist.

I never thought I would do anything that stupid again, nor would I ever feel worse self-inflicted pain. Yet somehow that tiny fingertip meeting boiling caramel hurt more. I think I lost a fingerprint!

I was soothed by the sympathetic reactions of Rhiannon and Gareth:

Rhi - What the bloody hell did you do that for, you goon?

Gareth - BWAHAAHHAHAHA!

I am fine now. I'm still in some sort of sugar semi-coma, but that's what you get for having pudding for breakfast.

Thank you kindly for your muffin stump advice! It's definitely our shitty old oven. You can whack in a tray of chips for an hour and they'll just lay there, all pale and indifferent. So you say to yourself, Okay, I'll give them five more minutes, then POW! They've turned into cremains. The oven is almost as rubbish as the microwave, which takes six minutes to reheat a small bowl of soup.

I'm in denial that these appliances need replacing. I reason that if I glare at them long enough, they will feel the heat of my rage and transfer that to the uncooked food.

Speaking of ovens, we have some neighbours that can only be described as skanks. There are four generations of them: Grandma Skank, Mama Skank, Teen Mama Skank and Baby Skank. They all have bleached blonde hair and orange complexions courtesy of The Tan Stand and they each drive a Vauxhall Corsa. Actually I am exaggerating because Baby Skank doesn't have hair or a Corsa; it would be unfair to pigeonhole someone at such a tender age.

Anyway, they all live in a flat on the second floor and they always have incredibly important and urgent business to do in their Vauxhall Corsas. They get in the car, crank up some pounding techno, drive away with a squeal of tiny tyres, then return in five minutes. This process is repeated about thirty-seven times a day.

Sometimes the Skank Family have gentleman callers. They drive Corsas too. We are often privvy to their conversations. It's kind of hard avoid, when the blokes don't even bother getting out of the car or switching off the engine or turning down the stereo. They just pull up underneath the Skank Dwelling and roll down the window. Then the Skanks lean out of their window and they shout sweet nothings to each other over the booming bass. It's just like the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet.

The other day I was watching a bowl of frozen edamame circulate in the microwave to no avail when I was rudely interrupted by the stereo throb of a hatchback in the car park. And then came the siren call of the Skank:

MAMA SKANK:  OVEN! Hey OVEN!

SHAUNA:  Did she say Oven?

GARETH:  I think she did say Oven.

[We move to the window and twitch the blinds]

SHAUNA:  What kind of a name is Oven?

GARETH:  Maybe she said Owen.

MAMA SKANK:  HEY OVEN! OVENNNNN!

SHAUNA:  Crikey.

OVEN:  Arriiiiiiiiiiiiiight doll.

MAMA SKANK:  Oven! You're fucken hot, Oven.

GRANDMA SKANK:  I'd totally do you, OVEN!

MAMA SKANK:  I'd totally do you tae, Oven!

GRANDMA SKANK:  Aye only if I can watch, but. OVEN!

So... do we fork out for a new oven and microwave that will enable food to be cooked correctly OR do we save the money so we can afford move far, far away from our annoying neighbours who have lovers called OVEN! This is the conundrum we wrestle with daily.

I have officially just run out of festive cheer. I was all fired up after watching Nigella groping dried fruits and tree ornaments on her show last week and thought, Capital! I am going to do some baking for my work colleagues. Much better than a tin of Quality Street!

So I spent five bloody days poring over my cookbooks and finally decided I would do a Festive Muffin Fest. I narrowed it down to five recipes and spent a fortune on ingredients and even got a new muffin tray. And after all that? THE MUFFINS TURNED OUT SHIT.

I started with the trusty Chocolate Banana muffins that I have made a million times to great acclaim but tonight they were a disaster. Crusty on top and slimy sludge inside. And then the ones with the Nutella in the middle all broke in half. And now the pineapple tropical-ish ones refuse to come out of the tin.

I have no idea why the first dozen failed, let alone THREE DOZEN FAILURES. I am far too cranky to speculate. You can't get much easier than muffins. And I was so careful measure everything properly and not overmix. Perhaps the muffins sensed they would be going before a critical audience and just collapsed under the weight of expectation.

Gareth is a resourceful fella and sawed off all the muffin tops which are almost edible, albeit ugly. He may eat one with a cup of tea as he is contractually obliged to be polite. But all I have to show for three hours of labour is a big bag full of greasy stumps and a filthy kitchen. And no stinking presents for the lads at work.

And I still haven't written any stinking Christmas cards. I am just waiting for the right pen, you know. Hopefully in the next couple of days the right pen will come along and jump into my hand and make the propsect of writing Christmas cards seem wildly exciting.

And I still don't have anything to wear to the stinking work Christmas party on Friday. I spent two hours in the shops this afternoon and just wanted to strangle myself with the nearest bit of tinsel. No matter what the shop, change room, mirror angle or configuration of fluroscent lighting, I looked completely shit in everything.

I quite fancy going outside and hurling muffin stumps at passing cars but it is SLEETING right now so I shall go to bed instead. Rah!

Frequently Asked Questions
Q.  Is this the best you can do after twelve days of silence?
A.  Yes.